Venus City 1

by Tabitha Vale

  “Oh my gosh, look at her dress,” she heard one of the Brides murmur.

  “Do you think she's the Runaway Bride?”

  “Seems so. I keep reading so many posts about it on my tech feed.”

  “Should I take a pic and upload it?”

  “I can't believe she would runaway from her wedding.”

  Forcing herself to block those comments out, Braya directed her next question at the Grooms, who probably weren't tuned to receive emotions like panic or distress. “Did you see anything on your way out? Was anyone hurt?” She could only imagine what might of become of Asher in her absence.

  One of them shrugged. “Didn't really have a chance to see anything.”

  “Hey,” another interrupted. “What are you hauling there?”

  “Oh, that's not your—” She was about to brush them off, but an idea struck her. Where else would she be able to find a crowd of a hundred people of whom could make use of all the Moon Tamer gear she had? And if she propositioned them correctly, they might turn out to be just what she needed...

  She knew the males would not be quick to agree to anything that had to do with violence, and the Brides equally so, but not because of any impairment on their part. So Braya had to come up with something else.

  “How many of you know how to play Moon Tamer?” She asked, raising her voice slightly so that more of the group could hear her. She didn't want to be too loud, though, just in case Channing was still up on the sixth floor.

  Nearly all of them raised their hands in response. Her heart started thudding excitedly. This was turning out better than she expected.

  “Great,” she said, maneuvering around the rigs so that she could throw aside the tarps. “Because we're going to play a game of it.”

  A thrill passed over the entire group like a tidal wave, and then a hush overcame them as Braya finished uncovering each of the five rigs.

  “Aren't there too many people?” A Bride asked.

  “And is this really the time to be doing this?”

  “Mother Ophelia said we had to evacuate, not play a game...”

  “Okay, okay,” Braya shushed them. “Just stop asking questions, okay? We don't have a lot of time. No, we might not even have enough players.”

  “Maybe we should set up a few different games—there's an awful lot of gear and—”

  Braya was rapidly losing patience. “NO,” she insisted, startling them into silence. “Just listen to me for a second.”

  When no one objected any further, she continued. “This is a different kind of game. We're improvising with what we have. All of you get a suit and all of you get the batons and orbs and rings, all right? All the builders, healers, and such are irrelevant in this game.”

  “How is this Moon Tamer, then?” One of the Brides dared to ask.

  Braya shot her a deathly glare. “I told you it's a spin-off. Now, do you see this trail of white metal in the ground? If you hover over those you can float in the suits. You'll need to get high enough in the air so that you can see over the hedges. The other team is on the other side. The goal of this game is to prevent them from getting through the hedge.”

  “And who is the other team, exactly?”

  “That's not important,” Braya said hurriedly. She was wasting too much time explaining the game when she should already be up the stairs and seeking out Asher. “Just get geared up as fast as possible, they'll be here any minute.”

  “What if we lose?” One of the Grooms asked as the group resumed their descent down the stairs and started surrounding the rigs of gear.

  “Don't lose,” Braya said gravely. “That's not an option.”

  She figured it might not be such a good idea to be so cryptic with them. She had told them it was a game, so they might not understand the gravity of it—but dammit she didn't have the time to explain the nuances of why exactly it would result in something bad if they did not win!

  As an afterthought, Braya snatched up a few rings from the gears and hooked them onto the lace twist over her stomach. Just in case.

  Braya found herself fighting the current as she dashed up the stairs. The Brides and Grooms were hurrying down and she was going up. She didn't dare yell at them for it, either—Channing might hear her. She didn't know why she was hoping she would retain the element of surprise—he was probably expecting her to return otherwise he would have followed her—but she didn't like the idea of him waiting around the corner, ready to snatch her as soon as she appeared.

  When Braya reached the sixth floor landing, she spared a glance down to see how the Brides and Grooms were doing. Most of them had strapped themselves into the floating suits and were experimenting with levitating heights. Some were still on the ground, apparently electing themselves to supply the ones in the air with a constant flow of rings and orbs. Braya scowled at that—didn't they know how to make them float through the air, like in a real game? They needed all the shooters they could get...

  A sound from inside drew Braya's attention. With her back against the wall, she slowly peaked around a pillar so that she could see across the landing on the inside.

  Her heart skipped a beat at the sight of Asher crumpled on the ground. He was up against the rail, strewn awkwardly about like a pile of garbage that had been swept out of the way. She couldn't see his face from her vantage point. Only a mop of mussed dark hair, the hard contours of his neck and jaw, and his shredded tie peaking out from a rumpled blazer. Any injuries he might have had were also out of her line of sight, but she knew that if he'd been hit by one of the orbs or rings the damage would not have been inflicted on the outside, but on the inside.

  Channing was still there, the batons clutched tightly in his hands, though they were at his sides, resting. She could only see the side of him as he conversed angrily with Mother Ophelia, who looked to be on the verge of tears. Her ruby red gown was disheveled and dirtied on the bottom, as if she had stepped on the hem one too many times in her hurry to join them.

  Page was there, too, as well as the officiant. They stood off to the side, quivering. Braya assumed Channing was forcing the officiant to be there, and the way the two of them cowered against the wall was almost comical.

  Braya's eyes slid back over to where Asher was lying. If she could just sneak along the edge of the rail—falling in the outer edge of his peripheral—she figured she might have a chance at reaching Asher without Channing noticing. That was all if his conversation with Mother Ophelia was as engaging as it appeared.

  Taking a deep breath, Braya scuttled inside. There was no more time for her to waste. Those men who had came through the blast in the Petti were bearing down on them, Asher was clearly unconscious, and she was nowhere closer to figuring out how she stood a chance against Channing. But she had to act on something, and that was what motivated her to tip toe over to Asher.

  Omitting the sigh of relief that rose to her lips, Braya sunk to the floor beside Asher, set the jewelry box down beside him, and pulled out the pack of health boosters—she had to store it in her bust this time, since she'd chopped off most of her skirts. She gently pulled back the torn collar of his shirt and began a ring of boosters just beneath his collar bone, from one side to the other. Expending seven in that fashion, she was dismayed to see that it was not enough to revive Asher.

  She frantically felt for a pulse with one hand as the other continued to unstick the boosters from its paper. His pulse—she found to her overwhelming relief—was faint under her touch, so she applied another row of three boosters along the front of his neck, and then another on his right temple, just at the edge of his hairline. They were glowing a glossy lavender color, their small coin-shaped designs sinking deep beneath his skin.

  Asher began to stir, groaning. Braya ran her fingers through his hair, and watched eagerly as his pearly blue eyes were uncovered when his lids fluttered open. She felt her heart do somersaults in response.

  “Braya,” he sighed.

  Channing and Ophelia's background conver
sation abruptly ceased after Asher uttered her name. Braya's heart seemed to cease as well. She regretfully dragged her gaze up to see a different scene than before. Channing, now completely turned so that he was facing her, stared at her impassively, and Ophelia, with a tear-streaked face, was observing Braya like she were a precious jewel uncovered from a year-long excavation. So much pride, so much reverence evident in that expression that Braya didn't know how to regard the woman.

  “Braya,” Asher continued, as if oblivious to the audience they now had. “Why—what are you...doing here?”

  She carefully let her eyes drop back down so that she could inspect his recovery process. The color was returning to his cheeks, and the gleam to his jewel toned gaze was as bright as ever. The boosters were working fast.

  “Shh,” she whispered, placing her finger over his lips. Braya cast another wayward glance up to Channing and Ophelia. What were they doing, watching on like that? Their unwavering interest in the way she dealt with Asher was making her uneasy.

  “Does it hurt very much?” Braya asked softly, brushing stray strands of his hair out of his eyes.

  “It's getting better,” he answered. “Really quickly. It's like a stream of hot water going through my body...”

  A cry from outside cut through the delicate tension on the sixth floor landing, and for a moment everyone turned as one to glance outward, toward the balcony.

  Asher's hand curled around hers. Channing was flexing his grip on the batons, his eyes landing back on Braya and Asher. Mother Ophelia appeared to notice that, and weaved one of her arms through his, though her affection was lost on Channing as he continued to stare at Braya and Asher, his magenta eyes like two grates of fire.

  “Please,” Mother Ophelia implored, burying her face in Channing's sleeve. The manner in which she did it suggested Leraphone's guess to be right—she was in love with him. The sight made Braya's stomach heave. Her mother in love with that foreigner—the foreigner who wanted to kill them all and raise his dead wife from the beyond? Sick, absolutely sick.

  “You promised,” Mother Ophelia murmured. Her apple green eyes were seeking his, but he refused to meet her gaze. Braya wasn't exactly sure what Mother Ophelia was referring to, but it was enough to cause Channing to wrench free of her and turn his back to the woman. Braya assumed this was him giving into whatever agreement Mother Ophelia had wrangled him into, because a small smile crept across Ophelia's features, and then she was turning to face Braya.

  She rushed at Braya, arms wide open. She collapsed onto the ground beside her and clutched her in a bone-crushing embrace.

  “Oh, Braya, Braya,” she wailed. “My sweet girl.” Mother Ophelia—should she even call her so anymore? The double meaning was weird—was frantically running her hands through Braya's hair as she pressed in on her with all the intentions of smothering her into the ground. Braya bent backward under the force of the hug, and her hand was torn free of Asher's grip. Ophelia cried into Braya's shoulder, murmuring the same thing, over and over. “Oh, Braya, Braya.”

  “Um...” Braya said awkwardly. When she had first learned that Mother Ophelia was her mother—she did need to stop referring to her with that title, she resolved—Braya hadn't known what to expect. What was there to expect from a woman who hadn't wanted her children? A cold reception, or maybe even denial. Those would have been normal behavior for someone like Ophelia, especially with her reputation to uphold. But this was something entirely unexpected. Braya supposed, though, without the pressure of being surrounded by her subjects or Court members, the woman was finally allowed an opportunity that she normally wouldn't get.

  Braya was leaning back against her palms as Ophelia continued to sob into the collar of her dress—a dress she lamented would have to be thrown out if she ever got through the day. What could she do? Channing was monitoring them as if he were waiting for his chance to—to do what? Braya wondered uneasily.

  “I'm sorry for ever letting you go. I'm so glad you know, though. I'm so glad Leraphone told you...” Ophelia wept. She had pulled her face out of the crook of Braya's neck, and stared into Braya's eyes with bloodshot green eyes and a red, swollen face. She still managed to be beautiful despite her tear-stained features. Her hand rose to stroke Braya's face—Braya resisted the urge to flinch away. “I had no choice, Braya. Leraphone was meant to be Mother, she's the eldest. But our mother, Olivia, didn't approve of Leraphone's views. She-she wanted to eliminate the Pink Plug from our entire male population—eradicate the tradition. She wanted to cure Tristant, erase all of Camille's standards. Leraphone, she's always living in her own world, always wanting to do things her own way. I never understood her. Mother would never allow her to take over with those ideals, so she appointed me as Mother, but by then I had already had two children. I was forced to give them up, as a Mother is never to have children before her appointment as Mother. But that horrid Malister—I could not believe what an unfortunate family they sent you to,” Ophelia shook her head in disgust. “I couldn't do anything about it, though.” She hiccupped. “Oh, Braya...I had to see you. That's why I attended your Career Interview. I was ashamed of how that Malister woman had raised you—so arrogant. I wanted you to be close to Leraphone, that's why I made you a Bride. I hope you can forgive me...”

  Braya's voice was lodged in her throat. She faltered; she couldn't respond.

  “It's okay,” Ophelia said, patting Braya's hand. “I understand, it's a lot to take in. But it will be all right. Things can be amended. I'm ready to take you back. After all, I am Mother. I regret not doing this sooner.”

  “Doing what?” Braya asked warily.

  “Reinstating you as my daughter,” Ophelia declared with an element of triumph. “I can do whatever I please as Mother. From now on, you're welcome to come home. To your real home. And Channing—”

  “Channing?” Braya asked in disgust, tearing her hand from Ophelia's soft touches. “What about Channing?”

  “He will live with us too, of course. Don't you want a father?” Ophelia seemed utterly puzzled by Braya's lack of enthusiasm.

  “No,” Braya said angrily. “I don't want that monster as my father! Don't tell me you don't know what's going on!”

  Ophelia's face scrunched up. “Whatever could you mean, darling?”

  More shouting from outside interrupted them. The commotion outside was growing louder and louder as the minutes passed. Braya distantly wondered how well those Brides and Grooms were doing in keeping those invaders at bay.

  The noise was evidently enough to jostle Channing into action. Braya's heart leaped into her throat when he was suddenly kneeling down beside them—when had he moved, let alone crossed the landing?

  “I've allowed this to carry on far too long,” Channing said through grit teeth. “I've kept my promise to you,” he directed this to Ophelia. “Now move so I can have my turn with her.”

  Ophelia did not grasp the severity of his tone, because she pouted at his words. It was another one of her mannerisms that made Braya want to throw up—how old was she, anyway?

  “But, Channing,” Ophelia said in playfully hurt tone, “Can't I have a few more minutes with my daughter?”

  “No,” Channing replied gruffly. He nimbly untwisted her fingers from his arm. “I gave you these two minutes as a sort of...thank you for keeping me so well taken care of in your quarters these past six months. I must, however, press upon you the urgency of this situation. This is goodbye, after all.”

  Ophelia's eyes swam with tears once more. “Goodbye? What—” her voice trembled. “What do you mean?”

  “In every sense of the word,” Channing's words glittered in malice, “this is...goodbye.” There was a certain weight, a certain tinge of finality to that word that pushed Ophelia into tears. They streamed silently down her cheeks as she tried to cling onto Channing, murmuring apologies for whatever she'd done to wrong him.

  “Don't you love me?” She asked miserably.

  Channing spared her a look. “Love,” he repe
ated unfeelingly. “A feeling capable of bringing great joy and killing great joy. My great joy, my sweet wife, Avalon, was taken from me and I never intend to besmirch her memory with the likes of you.”

  “But,” Ophelia trembled in her grief, “all those things you said to me...all those promises. All those times you...”

  “Means to an end, merely,” he said. Braya imagined he meant to sound nonchalant, but his voice was as gritty as gravel. “I needed you to shelter me while I was setting up my plans to steal the Sare's blood recognition from your family line. Once I had killed all of your existing family members, I was going to use you to transfer that power to me.”

  Ophelia's lashes fluttered as she heaved a great sigh of surprise. “What are you talking about? That's impossible.”

  Channing's cold gaze swept away from Ophelia, and he stared at Braya as he answered. “This city lives in isolation and ignorance. Outside this barrier, we have achieved more with our tiny shards of power than you have cowering in this city. I can and I am transferring that power. I thought I needed you, but I have changed my mind. Thanks for the warm bed, though.”

  Channing struck without warning. His hand lashed out and he made a slashing movement across Ophelia's chest. A bright purple light spewed from from his palm and shattered over Ophelia's dress. She convulsed, her eyes rolled to the back of her head, and then she slumped across the ground, unmoving.

  Channing wasted no more time after that. He lunged forward and snatched the jewelry box that had been sitting near Asher's leg, and then grabbed a fistful of Braya's hair and started dragging her away from Asher and Ophelia. Braya screamed out in pain, resisting at first. The struggling only made the pain that much more pronounced, so Braya ceased and Channing continued to pull until she was in the middle of the landing and too far away from Asher for him to help her. He didn't let go of her hair, though. He crouched back down beside her so that his face was uncomfortably close to hers.

  “Little Asher can't help you now,” Channing breathed over her skin.